


A Sense of Immortality

by DarkFairytale



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Torture, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff and Angst, Graphic Description, Gun Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Immortal Husbands Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Knife Violence, M/M, POV Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, POV Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Post-Movie: The Old Guard (2020), Protective Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Protective Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Protectiveness, Romantic Cuties R US, Temporary Character Death, Torture, Violence, Waxing Poetic dot com, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:41:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25831504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkFairytale/pseuds/DarkFairytale
Summary: “Nicolo,” Joe breathed, pushing himself up in order to be beside Nicky, to be with him as he healed.“Joe!” Nicky’s response was pained, but it was not said in relief or need, it was cried out in warning.Before Joe could act in response to the warning a heavy boot connected with Joe’s face that sent him back to the ground.A story of Nicky and Joe told through the five senses.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 23
Kudos: 487





	A Sense of Immortality

**Author's Note:**

> I'm an Incurable Fanatic of GREAT CHARACTERS and GREAT REPRESENTATION and GREAT RELATIONSHIPS and GREAT CONCEPTS and SEAMLESS FIGHT CHOREOGRAPHY, so guess who is also now obsessed with The Old Guard. That's right, it's me xD I adore this film, I adore these characters and by goodness I can't wait for a sequel. Here's some of my Joe and Nicky headcanons stuffed into one fic because these guys can fit into so many tropes I am here for it.

1\. Smell

Nicky knew what death smelled like. Even before he had died his first death, he had already been well acquainted with the stench of it. The Crusades taught him what fresh death smelled like, what decaying death, gutted death, scorched death and sickness death smelled like. Nicky knew it all. And when his first death came, he ran the embodiment of his death through with his sword just as the embodiment of his death had run him through in turn. His death smelled like sweat and blood and metal. He knew what it smelled like to gasp back to life surrounded by bodies on a battlefield, as the embodiment of his death did exactly the same thing beside him.

Much later, when Joe stopped being the embodiment of Nicky’s death and became in fact the embodiment of his immortal _life_ , Nicky learned that Joe did not always smell like death. Not when they stopped killing each other and let each other live, and let each other love. Joe smelled like summer days and balmy nights. He smelled like sweat and heat and passion. He often smelled like paint or charcoal, depending on his artistic choice of the day, or like spices or chocolate when he and Nicky cooked together. He smelled like citrus shampoo and hotel shower gels. Despite them constantly moving from one safe house to another, one country to another, Nicky somehow knew without a doubt that when he pressed his face to Joe’s hair, or to the crook of Joe’s neck, and breathed in, that Joe was what home smelled like.

The developing comforts and familiarity of Joe did not extend to their luck where death was concerned. As the centuries went by and technologies advanced Nicky learned what many new deaths smelled like. Deaths caused by bullets, death caused by bombs, death caused by gas.

So when Nicky woke up with a start and a cry of agony, he could tell by the stench in the air that there had been an explosion. It was obvious from the smell of dust and debris, the smell of scorched materials, and the smell of burnt flesh. The latter was coming from his own body; he knew that before he saw it. He glanced down at it for a second before turning promptly to one side to throw up. Just because Nicky knew from centuries of experience what many types of death smelled like, looked like, felt like, it did not mean the pain or the trauma lessened much. Nicky knew intimately what vomit smelled like.

And when he glanced up and saw Joe face down on the ground a matter of metres away, not moving, well, Nicky could have sworn he sometimes knew what fear smelled like too.

2\. Sight

When Joe first saw death it had a cross on its chest and eyes that blazed with a righteous fury. As he and death ran each other through, Joe had stared into death’s eyes and decided they were unlike any eyes he had ever seen, a moment before his own closed for the last - first, as it turned out - time.

Joe had seen many deaths and injuries in his time. He had seen people dead from war, dead from illness, dead from drowning and burnings and bombings. He had seen tragedy, atrocity, wars and famine and plagues. He had witnessed many centuries and the many terrible things that those centuries contained.

But among those terrible things he had seen beautiful things too. He had seen kindness, sacrifice, good people, good hearts, acts of mercy, acts of protection and acts of love. He had seen people risking their lives to keep others safe, or well, or happy.

He had seen centuries-worth of the natural beauty of the world, also; beheld the moon and the stars from almost every position possible from the surface of the earth; he had seen the blues and turquoises and greys of the oceans. He had seen centuries’ worth of sunrises and sunsets in oranges, yellows, pinks and reds. He had seen the greenest of grass, the whitest of snows, the most golden of deserts, the bluest of skies, and the blackest of nights.

And all of that beauty that he had seen, Joe was adamant, could still not compare to the beauty of his Nicolò. He could look at Nicky every day and find something new to love about him; a new angle to draw, a new expression to treasure. He had seen Nicolò train with Quynh in the humid heat, both powerful and precise, laughing and joking with each other. He had seen Nico dance with Andromache in a ballroom; a different kind of power and precision about them. He had seen Nicholas swim naked in the lakes of Italy and off the coast of Malta. He had seen Nicky play football with Booker; the elegant lines of his body and muscles as he moved, the grin on his face as Booker had barely had to ask before Joe was abandoning his sketchbook to join in.

He had seen Nicky deal with every emotion possible; seen each expression on Nicky’s face. He had seen Nicky kill many times, always with such grace. He had seen Nicky look back at him with an eternal adoration. He had seen Nicky stretched out on many a mattress, and had seen Nicky watching Joe stretched out on many a mattress.

Sometimes Joe would commit the things he had seen to memory, and other times he would draw them, immortalise them so that they could be just like him. Joe had seen so many things in his so many centuries. And yet, even after all the things that Joe had seen, he did not always see an attack coming.

He woke with a shuddering gasp. He turned his head slightly to one side and saw the effects of an explosion on their safe house. He tried to recall; Andy and Nile had walked into the local town on a supply run (thank god Andy had not been there) but he and Nicky had stayed. Nicky. He lifted his head, pushing himself up, turning his head and finding Nicky and oh…how his heart broke at the sight of him. The force of the blast must have knocked Joe sideways, but Nicky had taken much of the blast itself.

His beloved was a mess. The flesh of Nicky’s legs was torn up, bone exposed, and the bottom of his t-shirt and the remains of his jeans drenched in blood. Nicky’s skin was pale and his lips and eyes tight with pain. He would heal, but it would be slower, and more agonising, than usual.

“Nicolò,” Joe breathed, pushing himself up in order to be beside Nicky, to be with him as he healed.

“Joe!” Nicky’s response was pained, but it was not said in relief or need, it was cried out in warning.

Before Joe could act in response to the warning a heavy boot connected with Joe’s face that sent him back to the ground, and before he could react to that he was being thrown over onto his back. It was only then that Joe got a look at who they were up against.

For a second Joe could have sworn he was looking into Keane’s face, but Joe had broken Keane’s neck back at Merrick’s labs and Keane was not immortal. It did not take Joe long to recognise the slight differences; brother. Keane’s brother. Keane’s brother had a number of men with him, and neither Keane’s brother nor his men seemed surprised by the fact that Nicky and Joe were not dead; that Nicky was slowly healing rather than slowly dying. Something must have slipped the net. Someone must have been in the know but not been in the labs when it all went down. Copley had warned them that Keane had a brother - called Killey, or something - and that Keane’s brother was trained as Keane was, but Copley had still been trying to trace him so that the Old Guard could make sure that he did not know anything. Copley had not been working for the Old Guard for long; he was still scrubbing internet evidence, but there was only so much tracing he could do of word of mouth. And apparently Keane’s brother or one of his men had known a hell of a lot, because they in turn had managed to track the Old Guard down instead.

As a couple of Keane’s brothers’ men confirmed that Andy and Nile were not there and were sent out to keep watch, two more men moved to flank Nicky, who could scarcely move, let alone fight them, but even so they held a gun to the side of his head just in case. There were few sights more devastating to Joe than the love of his life injured or at the mercy of someone, and their weapons, and now Joe was being made to witness all of that at once; being made, because as soon as Joe made to move, he was held down by two men himself. Keane’s brother straddled Joe’s body to pin him further. And then Joe saw the glint of a knife in Keane’s brother’s hand.

Joe knew what was coming. It was inevitable. He turned his head and sought out Nicky’s gaze; they always tried to look at each other when they died if they could, just in case, just in case it might be the last time. Nicky was gritting his teeth in pain and anger, but his eyes betrayed his concern as he steadfastly held Joe’s gaze. But then Keane’s brother grasped Joe’s chin and turned his head, trying to force Joe to meet his eyes.

“Look at _me_ ,” Keane’s brother demanded, “Look at me. Or I will do the same to him.”

So Joe looked away from Nicky’s light, beautiful eyes - the colour of the Malta sea - to look into the eyes of the man that was about to kill him.

3\. Sound

Nicky loved the sound of Joe’s voice. He was naturally softly spoken, and in his voice any language he spoke sounded like a song. If Nicky had been parted from Joe for centuries and then met him blindfolded, Nicky would know the sound of Joe’s voice. He knew what Joe sounded like when he was impassioned, passionate, guilty, angry, happy, sad, teasing, distraught, hungry, hurt, betrayed, tired, amazed, enthralled, making declarations of love… He knew every laugh Joe could produce, from the polite fake one to the genuine head-thrown-back one. He knew every sigh Joe could make in the bedroom, and knew just how he could draw out each gasp, moan, groan, growl and whimper; he had studied this art with dedication for almost a millennia, because he and Joe had had each other in every single way a man could have another man, explored every single centimetre of each other’s bodies.

Nicky also knew what Joe sounded like when he died.

He knew what Joe sounded like when he had been run through by a sword, hit with an arrow, caught by shrapnel, shot by a bullet, shot by many bullets, choked on his own blood, slow deaths, quick deaths, Nicky had heard how Joe sounded for many deaths. But every fifty years or so Joe would die in a way that he had never died before, and Nicky, who knew every good sound Joe could make, would once again be reminded that any new sound he was going to learn from Joe in the future had a higher chance of being a traumatic lesson than a good one.

Joe was flat on his back, their captors holding him down, and the man on top of Joe - Keane’s brother; it had to be - got out a knife.

Joe turned his head and sought out Nicky’s gaze, but Keane’s brother grabbed Joe’s face in his large hand and forced Joe’s head back to face up at him.

“Look at me,” Keane’s brother ordered, “Look at me. Or I will do the same to him.”

And immediately Joe’s eyes left Nicky to look back up at Keane’s brother. Nicky could not even find it in himself to be pained that Joe was being the martyr - Nicky’s protector - because they both knew that Nicky would be doing exactly the same thing for Joe if he were in Joe’s position.

The tip of the blade was pressed to the centre of Joe’s chest and Nicky watched in horror when it wasn’t stabbed straight in but instead, slowly, oh so slowly, the man began to push it into Joe.

Nicky shouted out in fury, fighting against the mess of his body and the hold that the men had on it. Joe did not say anything, but he struggled - a fight or flight reaction - his fingers scrabbling at the ground and his feet shifting uselessly. Keane’s brother looked irritated for a moment, like he had been expecting either Joe or Nicky to start begging or pleading with him to stop. Neither of them did. But Joe _did_ start making sounds. They were involuntary, because Nicky could see that Joe was trying to swallow them, hold them back. They were awful little hitching whines of pain as the knife went deeper and deeper, millimetre by millimetre. Nicky had heard Joe being stabbed before, but never in a room that was so quiet and never so slowly. The tiny sounds Joe were making seemed louder than any Nicky had ever heard before, and in the quiet of the room Nicky could actually hear the sound the knife made as it impaled Joe in increments. Never had he heard Joe die like this before.

Keane’s brother stared triumphantly back into Joe’s eyes, clearly pleased to have finally registered some pain in Joe’s face and voice.

“You killed my brother,” Keane’s brother said, like that explained everything.

Nicky and Joe hated intimate kills. The first time either of them had been intimately killed, they had been killing each other. The last time either of them had been intimately killed was when Keane himself had used precious seconds to grab Nicky by the hair, shove his gun in his mouth and pull the trigger. Once they had safely escaped Merrick’s lab Nicky and Joe had both washed the matted mess of blood, skull and brain from Nicky’s hair, and Joe had talked to him soothingly as they both had tried to come to terms with how unnecessarily violating that death had been. It was apparent that a penchant for intimate kills extended to Keane’s brother, and this kill was meant to be as vengeful and personal as possible.

The little ‘ah’ hitches and wheezes of Joe’s breath were soft, so soft, but so full of pain, and his body was shaking and struggling with the shock of it and Nicky’s eyes had long been filled with tears. The blade was halfway into his beloved’s chest.

“Joe,” he spoke to him, trying to comfort in the only way he could; the sound of his voice, as Nicky strained against the hold the men had on him, wishing that the flesh and muscle of his legs and lower body would knit back together and heal _faster_. He still couldn’t even move his legs. “Joe? I’m here,” he promised in Italian, “Yusuf, I’m here.”

Joe’s eyes moved to him, his head turning slightly, to look into Nicky’s eyes, a tear of pain spilling from the corner of his eye and rolling down Joe’s face as another sound escaped him, a choked ‘Nic…ah…’ before a spasm took hold of him as the knife met something inside of him that had blood spilling up into Joe’s mouth and over his lips. His eyes were dulling, Nicky could see it, those beautiful warm, brown eyes, and Nicky felt the cold fury descend.

“I will kill you for this,” Nicky vowed to Keane’s brother and every other man in the room, “I will kill all of you.”

“With what body?” one of the men sneered.

Nicky was about to snarl something back, but in the quiet of the room he actually heard the moment the hilt of the knife met Joe’s chest and could go no further. He heard as much as he saw Joe’s body finally give up and die.

4\. Taste

Joe had tried delicacies and beverages from all over the world, all over the centuries; he had seen some fads rise and die out, he had seen others develop, and some old recipes had stayed the same for hundreds of years. He did not have Andy’s expertise in being able to pinpoint the exact location of the origin of a piece of baklava, but he had a sweet tooth. He loved chocolate and sugary treats and Nicky loved to indulge him; Joe would often find local sweet treats wrapped up and left on his pillow, which Joe would always share with Nicky regardless of whether they had been a gift. Joe also had a preference for sweet fruits; mangoes, apricots and grapes. He would only tolerate grapefruit if Nicky had been eating it, and then Joe could taste that bitter sharpness on his lips.

Joe liked to think about those kinds of flavours; he and Nicky feeding each other strawberries or Turkish delight; he found it helped him when he was dealing with less pleasant situations. Like the taste of blood in his mouth.

Joe choked back to consciousness and tasted blood. He barely had time to register the sight of a knife hilt in his chest and the sound of Nicky’s desperate voice before his body failed to heal around the blade, he choked on his own blood and died again.

It happened again. Joe woke up, tasted blood. This time he noticed that their attackers had left him alone on the ground, assuming that the knife would keep killing him. Which it did, again.

He woke a third time, noted that Nicky was being taunted by the men. Nicky was looking much more healed, but the men kept him down with the gun to his head. Joe tasted fury along with the blood, the fiery fury he felt whenever anyone threatened his Nicolò. The men were not even distracted by Joe gurgling back to death again, but Nicky’s eyes locked with his in fierce acknowledgment just before Joe died again.

The next time Joe woke up, he reached up and yanked the knife out of himself, forced himself up to his feet and launched the knife into the back of one of the men’s heads. It took the men by complete and utter surprise. It was all the distraction Nicky needed to disarm the man holding the gun to his head and promptly start shooting. As Joe staggered again, ready to die from extracting the knife, he vaguely noted that Nicky was laying waste to the room, and Joe got that distinct taste of vengeful satisfaction as he rocked forward. Nicky somehow managed to step forward to catch him with one arm, still shooting people with the other, and lower Joe to the ground so that Joe didn’t hit the ground too hard when he died for the last time that day. He knew it would be the last time. He knew Nicolò would make sure of that.

“Joe, it is over Joe,” Joe heard the quiet murmur of Nicky’s voice, addressing him in Arabic, “Wake up, my love, wake up. Yusuf? Come back to me.”

Joe could never deny a request like that from Nicky, not ever. He gasped back to life with Nicky’s name on his lips, lifting his hands blindly, grateful that Nicky caught and guided them. Joe opened his eyes to the sight of one of his hands pressed to Nicky’s lips, and Nicky’s eyes wide and shining.

“Nicky,” Joe prised one of his hands from Nicky’s grasp to touch carefully at Nicky’s legs and stomach as he sat himself up. Nicky had not quite finished healing yet, but it would only take another matter of minutes, “Nicolò are you ok?” His gaze darted around the room, taking in the bodies surrounding them.

“Am _I_ ok?” Nicky laughed, tight and emotional, lifting a hand to Joe’s cheek to guide his face to turn back towards him, so much more gently than Keane’s brother had, and Joe closed his eyes, letting Nicky reclaim the intimate action. He moved his head enough to press a kiss to Nicky’s wrist, just catching the taste of sweat and _Nicolò_ underneath the blood still on his tongue, as Nicky swiped a thumb softly over the tracks left by the tears of pain that had escaped from Joe’s eyes. Nicky then cupped his jaw and trailed his hand down Joe’s neck, before it came to rest on his chest, over where the knife had been pushed into him, and Nicky pressed as though the wound was still there and Nicky was attempting to stop the blood.

Joe could not lie - if and when Nicky asked him about it later - it was one of the more slow and painful deaths of Joe’s recent memory. But it would not have been any more painful than Nicky’s own injuries. Joe reached out to brace a hand on Nicky’s healed thigh, his palm finding bare skin since Nicky’s jeans were in tattered shreds. Joe tipped forwards and knew that Nicky would move to meet Joe’s forehead with his own.

“Yes, you,” Joe insisted, “I just got a knife, Nicky, you got an _explosive_.”

“I only died once. You died _six times_ ,” Nicky countered, and Joe could almost taste that cold fury in Nicolò again, “One of which _was_ by explosive.”

“Six times?” All Joe can think about was how devastating that must have been for Nicky to watch. “Ah, maybe that is why I feel so tired, huh?” Joe observed, as Nicky ran his fingers into Joe’s hair.

“Maybe, my love,” Nicky allowed softly.

A moment later Joe had Nicky’s lips pressing gently to his own. Joe moaned quietly, keeping one hand on Nicky’s leg as he reached up to grasp desperately at the front of Nicky’s bloodied t-shirt.

“You taste like death,” Nicky sounded so sad, and Joe had a moment to register the sight of his blood staining Nicky’s lips.

“That’s funny, because you taste like _life_ , Nicolo,” Joe countered, because he hated Nicky sounding sad, and Nicky pushed his lips back to Joe’s once more.

That was how Andy and Nile found them several minutes later, sitting tangled together in their destroyed safe house, covered in blood, surrounded by dead men.

“I leave you unattended for half an hour,” Andy said, her tone light but her eyes hard and calculating as she surveyed the scene before her.

“What happened?” Nile asked, moving forwards into the wreckage.

Joe removed himself from Nicky just enough to locate Keane’s brother’s body to point it out. He was surprised to see that Nicky had beheaded the man at some point, and the head lay not far away, two bullet holes where his eyes had been. “Keane’s brother,” he said.

Nicky clucked his tongue softly and licked his thumb, and Joe turned his attention back to him as Nicky wiped at some of the blood drying at the corner of Joe’s mouth.

“Any better?” Joe asked him, knowing full well that it wouldn’t have made the least amount of difference, but Nicky still seemed to have been a little appeased by it.

“We have to move before somebody drives by and notices half the building is gone,” Andy warned them, “I’ll call Copley.”

Nile appeared beside them and held a hand out to Nicky. Nicky took it and was pulled to his feet, before they both guided Joe back to his.

“It was a bad one wasn’t it?” Nile asked, taking stock of the state of Nicky’s clothes and the blood on his skin underneath, and at the blood stained hole in Joe’s t-shirt and the blood on his face and beard.

“It’ll be a fun story for the journey,” Joe told her as Nicky’s arm wrapped around his waist, squeezing tightly.

As Nile went to collect any possessions that had survived the explosion and Andy was mid-conversation on her mobile with Copley, Joe and Nicky helped each other towards the car; they were both fully healed and no longer in physical pain, but they both knew the other needed the emotional support from what had happened.

“So, you shot him in the eyes and beheaded him?” Joe could not help but ask, “I didn’t get to witness that part.”

“Of course I did,” Nicky told him, stopping Joe to turn him in his arms, “He forced you to look at him, Joe, he forced you to look into his eyes as he killed you like that so I made sure he could never…” Joe made a soft noise of understanding sympathy, but the sound made Nicky startle, holding onto Joe’s face, “Look at me, my love, look at me.”

“Always,” Joe promised, meeting Nicky’s beautiful gaze.

“I made sure he could never look into your eyes,” Nicky vowed, “Not ever again.”

Joe moved forward to kiss him desperately. He could taste blood still, and the cloying taste of the air around them; debris and dust and char, but underneath all that was something grounding for the both of them. He could practically taste the remains of fear and panic and protective fury on Nicky’s tongue as one of Nicky’s hands slid to the back of his neck, his arm wrapped around Joe’s waist to hold him as close as possible. But under all of those flavours of damage, stress, fear and anger there was also the taste of each other, the taste of victory in the face of threat, the taste of being _alive_ , and the taste of pure and utter devotion. And that was what Joe clung on to, and would continue to do, until he was able to properly get the taste of blood out of his mouth.

5\. Touch

Nicky and Joe were tactile people. Not in any particularly overt way when they were in the company of the team or on a mission; they did not need to be side by side at all times, but they found reassurance both from eye contact and from regular casual and subtle touches; a brush of hands, or knock of elbows, or a touch of foreheads, little acknowledgments of the other. It was different when they slept, of course, with Joe’s arms around Nicky and his face pressed to the back of Nicky’s neck, with Nicky facing outwards, his own arms covering Joe’s, but never far out of reach of his gun, just in case.

When situations called for it though, Nicky and Joe could and would leave professionalism in the dust. When they had been through something horrific or painful and they needed the contact with each other, they would be more openly tactile with each other. This was one of those times.

Andy was driving and Nile was in the passenger seat, so Nicky and Joe had been able to occupy the back seat. Nicky had draped his arm over Joe’s shoulders so that he could hold him close and also keep a hand splayed over Joe’s chest. In turn, he had not missed how Joe’s hand had come to rest on his thigh. His and Joe’s temples were pressed together as they leaned into each other. Andy and Nile listened to Nicky and Joe’s report about what had happened with anger and sympathy.

“I thought Copley scrubbed the CCTV in Merrick’s labs,” Nile said, “And we didn’t leave any of Merrick’s men alive. How did Keane’s brother know that it was Joe that killed Keane?”

“I don’t think he did,” Joe said, “I think it was just coincidence. He knew about us all being captured, maybe Keane had told him about it, and then we all escaped and Keane was dead and so his brother knew who to blame. When they attacked today I think they expected all of us to be there; the car was there after all, because you two decided to walk into town. As soon as he found out you and Andy weren’t there he stationed men to keep watch for you. Nicky was injured by the blast and I wasn’t. I think he was happy to leave Nicky to his injuries until he was done with me. I wasn’t targeted specifically; I was just coincidentally the first he chose to suffer for it.”

Nicky felt Joe’s fingers flex on his thigh, so moved his free hand to link his fingers with Joe’s, keeping their intertwined hands on his thigh, because just like his own hand resting against Joe’s chest, he knew that Joe had his hand on Nicky’s healed legs for the reason of being able to reassure himself that Nicky was alright.

Eventually Joe, tired from dying and reviving six times that day, fell asleep, his head tucked safely against Nicky’s shoulder, under Nicky’s chin. Nicky absently massaged Joe’s chest gently with his hand, his fingers every so often brushing over the hole in Joe’s shirt left by the knife, and Nicky’s fingers met the bare skin, where the blade had been, now as clear and injury free as ever. Nicky tried to block out the image of Joe gasping back to life and dying repeatedly from the blade still stuck in his chest, and the way that it had been pushed into him in the first place, so slow and cruel and the sounds Joe had made…Nicky turned his head slightly to press his nose to Joe’s curls and breath in, closing his eyes, able to feel Joe’s chest rising and falling under his hand, his heart beating under the surface.

He tried to remember instead the second-to-last time Joe had died, when he had met Nicky’s eyes and Nicky had instantly known what Joe was going to do the next time he woke; Nicky had had the attention of the men and their guns and when Joe had burst back to life, yanking the knife out of his own chest to throw it… Nicky had never loved Joe and his determination more. It had provided Nicky the chance to snatch the nearest gun and neatly dispatch or take down enough men for him to catch Joe, lower him to the ground before he died from removing the knife, and then pick up his sword, which had not been knocked too far away by the explosion. He had killed the rest of the men, including the two keeping watch, who had run back inside at the sound of the commotion. Nicky had felled Keane’s brother with a bullet when he had first gotten the gun, but he left him alive until he was the last one left alive.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he had told Keane’s brother, “Any of it.” and quick as a flash shot once, twice, into each eye and with one slash of his sword, beheaded him before he could even hit the ground.

“Nicky,” Andy’s quiet voice pulled Nicky's attention back into the car and Nicky met her gaze in the rear-view mirror, “The next nearest place we have is the one with the windows. I can drive us to the next safe house along but that will take another few hours…”

Nicky appreciated Andy considering such things; she had clearly grasped that this particular day had been a day of Nicky exacting vengeance on those who dared hurt Joe, and that he would be extra cautious and on-edge for another day or so yet.

What she meant about the windows cheered Nicky a little as he remembered the first time Booker had taken one look at the single bedroom of the small property, that had patio doors leading out to either side and skylight windows above and had immediately laughed and said to Nicky, “How are you going to manage this sleeping arrangement, then?”

Booker had picked up pretty quickly that it was not that Joe was always the big spoon and Nicky the little spoon, but rather that Joe was the big spoon and Nicky the protector, the knife, always between Joe and the exit. Booker had always found it amusing to see how Nicky handled situations where the exit was in an unexpected position to the beds, and that Nicky had a couple of times previously purposefully moved beds to be more conveniently located.

Nicky had dismissed Booker’s comment of sleeping arrangements that time with a blasé shrug and laugh, and he and Joe had gone to sleep in their usual positions. Booker had then, of course, found it hilarious that during the night Nicky had unconsciously shifted himself and Joe until Joe woke up on his back and Nicky woke up spread out over Joe, his head on his chest and his hand well within reach of his weapon.

Nicky decided maybe he would not mind having to sleep with his head on Joe’s chest to better protect him during the night.

“I will make it work,” he responded to Andy, his tone thankful for her consideration.

She nodded at him in acknowledgement.

***

Nicky woke Joe when they reached the house, ushering him out of the car. Andy and Nile started uncovering and turning on everything in the house, leaving Nicky and Joe to clean themselves up in the bathroom.

Joe brushed his teeth and washed his mouth out to rid himself of the taste of blood as Nicky got the shower started and worked on undressing them. They stepped into the shower together. Nicky took special care in washing the blood from Joe’s beard and chest, looking into his beautifully expressive brown eyes the entire time; trying to keep this sight of them to replace the memory of Joe's eyes dulling as he died, or Keane's brother forcing them to look away from him. Joe made to move and Nicky made a quiet noise of protest, grabbing at him, but Joe hushed him.

“It is my turn,” he told him, “Your legs, Nicolò.” And in one fluid movement Joe went to his knees, still keeping eye contact as he cleaned Nicky’s stomach and legs of blood and pressing three kisses to his skin; one to each thigh, and one in the centre of his pelvis, no trace of the explosion now left upon them.

Nicky drew him up and kissed him soundly. They dried each other off and dressed in clean clothes Nicky had picked up from one of the bedroom drawers. They then returned to the living area to eat with Andy and Nile, before retiring to the bedroom. 

It wasn’t until they entered the bedroom that Joe suddenly laughed and said “Hey, remember how Booker teased us the first time we slept here?”

Nicky hummed in confirmation. The beds were how Nicky had rearranged them the first and last time they had been there, his and Joe’s bed pushed up against the far wall.

“I miss Booker,” Joe admitted quietly to Nicky as they settled down in bed.

Nicky knew it to be true. Joe was a passionate man who loved and trusted fiercely, loyal to a fault. He had never fathomed that one of them could ever betray the others, so when Booker had done so, no matter how heartbreaking the intention, the trust Joe had had in Booker had been shattered. Joe’s brother had broken Joe's trust and his heart. Booker and Joe had bonded over a keenness of sports, and books, and Joe was often the first to take Booker up on a bet on something. So Joe’s accusations of Booker in the lab and his subsequent anger did not mean that Joe did not miss Booker as much as Nicky did. Nicky had been just as angry at Booker for not coming to them and talking about it rather than going behind their backs as Joe was; Joe was just louder in his upset about it when it had first happened.

“I know you do, Joe,” Nicky told him, “I do too.”

“These five months without him has felt like a long time. And it has not even been a hundredth of the time yet that we agreed on.”

“I know,” Nicky told him as Joe settled in with his back against the wall, wrapping his arms around Nicky and fitting him in his usual place; his back against Joe’s chest. One of Joe’s hands landed on Nicky’s leg again, but Nicky did not say anything about it, not when he knew it was more than likely that he was going to wake up on top of Joe like the last time they stayed there.

“Maybe we will see him before the hundred years is up,” Joe mumbled tiredly against Nicky’s neck, “Just bump into him somewhere.”

“Maybe,” Nicky agreed.

Joe’s arms held Nicky a little tighter, and Nicky grasped him back just as securely. He realised that they had not truly stopped touching each other once in the hours since Andy and Nile had found them sitting on the floor in the middle of the destroyed safe house, surrounded by bodies.

Nicky turned his head for a kiss, breathing in at the same time, keeping his eyes open, so that he could see, hear, smell, taste and touch Joe all at once, to remind himself that Joe was ok and that Joe was here with him, as he had been since the Crusades.

“Thank you for being my hero today,” Joe murmured to him.

Nicky held him close and told him “Thank you for being mine.”

And if Nicky woke up in the morning to find himself sprawled on top of Joe, head on his chest, with Nile grinning knowingly at him just as Booker had, Nicky knew it was worth it, because it meant he was able to look into Joe’s eyes from the moment he woke up and have Joe’s smile brighten up his morning from the moment Joe saw him back.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading. I'm so sorry for giving Joe and Nicky a hard time when honestly they deserve nothing but good times and happiness. Also there had to be a Booker mention because I am 100% a Booker fan, that poor boy. Now back to my Marwan Kenzari film binge I go...
> 
> Comments, kudos and bookmarks are always much much loved and appreciated. Thanks for reading!


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